


Warm on a Cold Night

by Pulsatiating



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Drug Addiction, Drugs, F/F, F/M, M/M, Non-binary Sebastian, Non-binary Sherrinford, Other, PTSD, Post-Reichenbach, Sex Work
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-06-27
Updated: 2015-06-26
Packaged: 2018-04-06 09:21:55
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 3
Words: 2,355
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4216245
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Pulsatiating/pseuds/Pulsatiating
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Post-Reichenbach Fall, Sherlock reverts back to the use of drugs and is forced to withdrawal when Mycroft requests his assistance with the newly-discovered underground terrorist network in London. This means he must return to a still-grieving John, and dismantle the network. This task doesn't prove to be a simple as Sherlock originally deduced.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Ground Coffee Beans and Cocaine

City sounds surrounded and filled the dark, dank alcove. Sirens wailed and their lights illuminated the room as they moved. Trains and cars flew past, people aboard whom had a set destination unlike the detached, desolate hull of a man who laid curled tightly like his bleeding fists on a stained, odious, and repugnant excuse of a mattress. His thick, dark hair was soaked with sweat and was matted. The man's face bore stubble (of which was also laden with sweat), as his last shave had been previous to his last fix, which was approximately 78 hours prior. The aforementioned sounds and lights went unnoticed by the man, everything felt fog-like and muddled, everything was hazy and thick to him. He felt heavy and nearly paralyzed, his body seemingly filled with lead, and he drifted in and out of consciousness, going from states bordering on comatose to moments where everything was sharp and felt. These wavering throes so unstable and fluctuating made his body uncertain of how to respond and so it simply did not, going limp and lifeless but then unexpectedly coiling and contorting with a feeling that was indescribable by any means of language. The apathetic man found it humorous, after all he deserved this, he had caused pain to the ones who cared about him so selflessly, he had lied to them, to them he was dead and if it was any consolation, he wished he was.

At some point in time, not too far after, he began to shake. The tremors overtook his body with such vehement force that he lay helpless, unable to ironically shake them. His chassis was convoluted with convulsions. And what had caused this despicable man to become a hollow husk; it was his true hamartia: cocaine.

Subsequent to the shaking and following the fever, arrived the hunger. He was quite literally starving and this fact was made both evident and obvious by his sickly thin body. Ribs and joints nearly protruded from his pale, diaphanous skin, which was plentifully bestrewn with veins. The ghostly man had been oblivious to his hunger until now but now it was as if a swarm of wasps had simultaneously hatched in his stomach and were furious. To him it was no simile, in his haze he started to believe, how ever incredulous it might be, that an aggregation of the stinging, piercing insects had collected in him. Dirtied, calloused hands began to claw and lacerate his bony, bruised abdomen, causing a voice to rise up his bile-coated throat and let out a series screams.

When his voice became nonextant, he lay, immobile sifting through the indistinguishable debris and remains of what was once his “mind palace”. It was utter disarray, so completely obliterated that even the most basic memories and facts were lost. The man pathetically could not even recall his own name, only the fact that it was painfully common. Something mediocre like Christopher, or Matthew. Maybe Joseph, Joshua, John?

John.

JOHN.

It was if the name triggered a siren in his head, causing his eyes to fly open widely and his breath to stop in his throat, forcing him to emit a choking noise. His mind palace was flooded with a monsoon of memories of the beautiful, selfless creature that was John Watson. Tiny details recollected with such precision it was almost as if he was right there in front him. The man wanted to sob, so thankful for at least the memory of the sandy-haired man who cared about him unequivocally and unconditionally. The man who stayed by his side through his rampant and portentous exploits. The already traumatized man whom of which he had forced to watch as he plummeted to his “death”. The man whom he failed. The man whom he would never get to see let alone love. 

These thoughts were too much for the fiend, reminding him all too much as to why he had begun shooting up the narcotics once again. He needed another fix, he had to have it. The man’s muscles began to twitch at the thought of shooting up. A plan began to map itself out in his head. First, he would drag himself into the mold and asbestos filled, cracked, dirt-crusted tile-covered shower and bathe himself to the best of his ability. Then he would scrounge up whatever morsels of food he could find. Finally he would manipulate a dealer into giving him what he required, and he would do it by any means necessary. But first, the shower, because as he was coming to realize, his lower body was covered in an odiferous scent that was most definitely not sweat, or at least not just sweat alone, most likely a combination of sweat and his own urine, how lovely.


	2. Mesh Tops and Magnussen

An empty can of unidentified comestibles lay strewn on their side next to a stainless steel Swiss Army Knife that had only the largest knife exposed. The knife was covered in vestiges of the morsels and next to the knife and the can was the man. He attempted to stand but only resulted in collapsing on the ground. With his teeth grit in both sheer concentration and frustration he manage to stand after several painstaking endeavors. Emaciated hands gripped the edges of dust-caked windowsills as he braced himself, with trembling thighs against the wall and adjacent window. Eyes were lifted to glance out the window and into the foggy, hyetal London night. The people stories below him moving laboriously, obliviously surpassing each other, caught up in their own microcosms, yet communally and concomitantly making up a macrocosm. They resembled worker bees in a hive, the man thought and the corners of his mouth moved upwards infinitesimally at the thought.

Eventually the man made across the diminutive space and then with tedious, monotonous effort down the thirteen flights of stairs, due to the absence of an elevator in the ratty, rundown apartment complex. He made multiple stops to catch his breath and to rest his wobbling, aching legs. But alas, here he stood, basking in the London fog and bustle before promptly and violently retching on the dark gray pavement. After gathering himself, he stumbled through hordes of people, occasionally pickpocketing the ones he deduced as wealthy, until he reached a cliche darkened alley. He stopped before the dark depths of the alley and tossed the wallets, excluding their money, in the graffitied, begrimed wastebin and then proceeded to calculate the money by just its weight alone. Good, he thought as he estimated that he had enough to get about 20 grams of the narcotic, which was enough to last him two to three days.   
He continued down the seemingly desolate alleyway, which was alive with noises, mainly falsified, exaggerated moans and languish grunts from prostitutes and their patrons. The man continued down the blackened back street until he arrived at an unmarked steel door on his right and proceeded to knock on it with a shaking fist. The door creaked open to reveal a young, thin boy with short conflagrant carmine hair. His pale face was littered with freckles and his appearance and size suggested that he was barely legal; on his legs he sported thigh-high black fishnet stockings and above them he donned scanty black shorts and a mesh top. 

“Are you here to see him?”, the boy purred at the lanky, shivering man who towered over him.

“Clearly.”, the man said weakly, annoyed at the lack of tact and couth of the ginger-haired amateur.

“Right this way...sir.” The youth licked his lips indefatigably and winked before turning stocking covered heel and superfluously sashaying down the listlessly-lighted hallway, past multiple doors, from which illicit noises were emanating. At the end of the hallway stood a egress draped with burnish, gleaming onyx beads. The flamed-haired boy swayed through it and the fiend followed behind, the room open up to reveal a man with slight facial hair surrounding his mouth and thinly framed spectacles sat perched upon a throne-like cathedra. On his right sat another young boy with a mass of dark, leucous curls, ecru skin, and wide innocuous eyes. The older man smiled heinously and beckoned the young pale boy with two fingers, the boy acceded obediently and strutted across the room and ensconced into the man’s lap. The man spoke thus:

“Ah yes, Mr. Holmes. I see it didn’t take very long for you to return.”

The man with the name of Holmes, swallowed thickly and looked up into the older man’s eyes.

“Magnussen.”, the younger greeted shakily. Magnussen cackled and began to nip at the neck of the boy on his lap. The boy moaned salaciously and Holmes wrinkled his nose up distaste. He then continued crossly,

“...you know what I’m here for.”

Magnussen gave a Cheshire grin and expatiated, “Yes yes, but is that any way to ask? Let me introduce you to my new boys.” He ran his hand up the auburn-haired boy’s lingerie-covered thigh. “This is Aidan.” He then reached over to the boy who sat submissively alongside him and ran finger along the underside of his jaw. “And this is Ubaid, he doesn’t speak but he can use his mouth very well.” Magnussen cackled at his own obscenity. Holmes began to dry heave and collapse once more onto the floor, clutching at his diaphragm, this caused Magnussen to guffaw. Magnussen pulled an opaque bag of pure white substance out of his pant pocket and tossed it effortlessly to the floor in front of where the sickly man heaved.

“You become so pathetic, dear Sherlock, it's such a shame.” Sherlock Holmes began to expectorate a dark matter that resembled grounded coffee beans and before falling unconscious on the floor of the felonious place.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ubaid = A Muslim name meaning "small slave" or "domestic servant".
> 
> Aidan = Celtic name meaning fire or flame. 
> 
> Yes, "leucous" is a word. It is a synonym for blond.


	3. Conclusions and Clinics

The burnishing white lights of the room blinded Sherlock as he awoke a hazy, pained stupor. He felt as if he was experiencing all of the worst hangovers of his life at once, on top of the feeling of withdrawal from the cocaine. He quickly realized that he was in a medical facility, a clinic to be exact. He also came upon the realization that he was in a clinic on the west side of London, moreover southwest and was at least five stories up, judging by the volume of traffic below. He then proceeded to narrow down all of the clinics over five stories on the west side, and came to the conclusion that there were only two and one had only personal offices above the fifth floor.

Oh no.

No.

No no no no.

Out of all of the facilities in London, of course he would end up in the one where he works. Sherlock began to panic and devise a stratagem to abscond, so that he could get far, far away from this place, but his thoughts were interrupted by a nurse (female, black, mid-thirties, transsexual, insomnia, single.) entering the brightly-lit room. She spoke cheerily, 

"Alright Mr..." She paused to glance at the clipboard that she held and then resumed, "William. Hmm that's all it says here, no last name, nothing. Must be a computer error." She shrugged nonchalantly as she set some papers on the side table. "Well I'm just here you let know that the doctor will see you soon. It usually doesn't take this long but you know how Friday nights are....and judging by the look of you, you've had a pretty rough one." She clicked her tongue and started to check Sherlock's vitals. It took him gargantuan effort to turn his head towards the lively nurse, the cartoon characters on her scrubs swam before his eyes and his heart sped from the simple exertion. The heart monitor beeped adamantly and the nurse turned towards him in concern.

"You've got to take easy, love.", she said softly and raised the level a notch on his Acetaminophen drip. The scrub-clad woman spoke again, "We wanted to give you Morphine but your condition suggests drug abuse and addiction. Heroin, I'm presuming?" Her tone was more maternally concerned, rather than judgemental.

"..Co-co-caine", he forcefully gritted out, cursing himself for how pathetically weak he sounded, his voice mirroring the state of his health. 

She tsked and looked down at him, taking pity on the near-lifeless man and raised the notch on his drip once more before exiting the room. The door clicked shut and Sherlock approximated how long it would take for the doctor to arrive. 4 minutes and around 16 seconds, give or take a few seconds, should he stop to tie his shoes or greet a passerby in the hall. 

Sherlock needed to leave now. He stood shakily on thin, bird-like legs and carefully reached over to where the Acetaminophen drip sat and grit his teeth as he pushed the notch completely forward. The drug rushed into his blood, almost immediately dulling the ache of his entire body. He then procured a paper clip from the stack of papers across from him and wedged it between an orifice in the heart monitor, causing it to glitch and repeat the information it had previously been displaying. The sickly man snapped the protruding end of the paper clip off and grit his teeth as he ripped the IV out of his left arm. Blood began to stream down his forearm and fingertips. He held the fresh wound against his hospital gown to staunch the blood flow and prevent it from dripping onto the freshly mopped eggshell-tinted linoleum tile. Even though his legs ached gruelingly, the nearly naked man pressed on and wobbled to the other side of the room where the supplies cabinets were. He braced himself against the pale blue countertops, feeling enervated from the bodily strain, and then used the fragmentary, dismembered paper clip to pick the lock of the cabinet. He quickly grabbed gauze and medical tape and proceeded to apply it to the wound. After bandaging himself, the pale man used sanitary wipes to depurate the blood that had emanated from himself, hurriedly rushing towards the window and prying it open with disposable glove-clad hands, and catapulting himself out of the aperture.


End file.
